Chapter 12

THE ALCHEMISTS OF PARIS

The term boneshaker, I decided, was not just a nickname, but also the true name of that diabolical wheeled device.

When I could finally glimpse the walls of Paris, it was a little past noon, and I no longer could feel my back, let alone my backside. I located a postal stop from its sign, went into a small inn, and, francs in hand, asked for a ride. It felt like a luxurious way to travel, seated next to the postal worker on a hard carriage box. I imagined Arsène’s expression when I told him where I had left his iron contraption.

Believe me, after that trip I was absolutely certain that no one would ever be able to invent a comfortable bicycle, let alone that anyone who was not as crazy as Arsène would ever be able to ride one.

After the long siege of that winter and the resulting starvation, Paris had turned gray. The streets were mostly deserted — few people, few inns open, and no animals running loose, as had been the case in the past. The famine must have been even more terrible than I had supposed. The Luxembourg Gardens seemed covered with ashes, which shocked me, as did the string of closed, barred windows along Napoleon’s residences.

I thanked the postal worker for giving me a ride and set about looking for the Alchemists Hotel, heading toward the quarter where they had told me it was located — the Marais. Not so long ago, the Marais had been a swamp, and now it was a maze of short houses and narrow alleys. I found the Alchemists just before the rue du Temple, where the money changers’ and pawnbrokers’ shops began. There, embarrassed Parisians handed over their most valuable goods in exchange for a handful of francs. Papa was right, I thought, as I passed a grimy, wet intersection. For some people, war was an opportunity. Every event and every action that man took caused unexpected consequences, upward or downward. Someone is always higher than us, and someone is always lower than us.

Above, I noticed that the trees seemed unconcerned about the fate of the war, for the first buds and tender leaflets were already sprouting. Below, strong, revolting smells seeped out through the half-open doors. Cabbage soup in the best circumstances. Mouse, shoe, and belt soup when there was nothing else. As always, poverty and luxury were no more than a few blocks apart, but in entirely different worlds.

Sherlock and Lupin were not in their room, but the woman who ran the little hotel knew exactly who I was inquiring about. When I asked her if she had a room for me, she scrutinized me coldly, as if she was guessing my age and the amount of francs I had with me.

She said she did not. In order to negotiate over the price, I thought.

I did not want her to realize how confused and frightened I was. I kept thinking that I had run away from home and was completely alone in a city that had just emerged from a war. But to the eyes of outsiders, I wanted to show myself to be a worldly, independent girl. I could not know how ridiculous this must have seemed.

“If you really want,” the woman suggested, “I can have a straw pallet added to your friends’ room.”

My eyes lit up. “That would be perfect!” I exclaimed.

“But it will still cost you as much as a single room for yourself,” she clarified.

That was fine with me. My first concern was not about money, but about finding myself in Paris without any plan.

I asked her where I could get a bite to eat, and the woman peered at me again, her expression like that of a wolf. “It depends how much you want to spend, miss.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I replied. “I’ll take care of it myself.”

I found myself on one of the bridges that crossed the Seine, not far from l’Île de La Cité and the black spires of Notre-Dame. The river flowed slowly, carrying debris with it.

I wandered near the Lutèce arena, to the one building I knew well — my home. It broke my heart to see the windows and front door barred. What had been the window of my bedroom overlooked a small park, where boards, planks, and rubble were thrown together now. Only two of the trees surrounding the fountain had survived the chaos.

A woman walking near the walls looked like one of our maids, and I thought of calling out to her. But I stopped myself, putting a hand over my mouth. I was not sure it was her, and I realized that even if it had been, I would not have known what to say.

So I went back to the hotel, reaching it at the end of the afternoon. A glance from the woman on the ground floor was all I needed to know that Lupin and Sherlock had returned.

I climbed the wooden stairs of that filthy dump two by two, knocked on the door, and cried, “Lupin! Sherlock!”

“Irene!” Arsène hopped up. “So that old crone wasn’t having us on. It’s really you!”

“In flesh and blood, gentlemen, despite your shake-everything vehicle!” I said.

“You must be crazy!” Sherlock greeted me. “Coming all the way here alone.”

“And how are you so sure I was alone?”

“From seeing how you’re dressed, I’d say,” Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. “And because the woman downstairs told us we should go down to the cellar and get a third pallet to put in the room.”

It was useless to pretend. In a few words, I told them of my flight from home. It seemed an adventure worthy of Rocambole, the gentleman thief I’d read three books about, written by the Viscount Ponson du Terrail.

“What about you?” I asked.

“We need a hearty dinner!” Lupin roared.

“Or at least the Parisian equivalent,” Sherlock added.

I snorted and asked, “Is eating the only thing you know how to do?”

“Whether you believe it or not, Irene, a hearty meal may be the only way to figure out more about the Grand Master.”

Sherlock explained to me that thanks to his brother Mycroft and his subscription to The World Literary Gazette (a showy periodical filled with information about the latest literary news), Sherlock had found a clue about the Grand Master.

“And how can that help us?” I asked, puzzled.

“Simple! I remembered that the article in question spoke of a Parisian writer … Mr. Alexandre Dumas!”

Hearing the name of the author of The Three Musketeers greatly surprised me.

“Alexandre Dumas?” I stammered. “You mean that Alexandre Dumas? He’s still alive?”

“Unfortunately not. He died last December,” Sherlock replied. “But his son, who has the same name, is still alive. Although he’s not the writer his father was, in my opinion, he might be able to help us. The two worked hand in glove with each other!”

“Oh, and where —” I began.

“I made a little visit to the French Academy!” Lupin interrupted with a clever smile. “A peek at their address book was enough to find out where our Dumas lives.”

“And a chat with his very friendly maid yielded his habits,” Sherlock added.

According to what Dumas’s housekeeper said, the writer usually dined at Francillon, an expensive restaurant that had somehow managed to keep up its business, despite the war.

We headed to the restaurant, which was near the big church of Saint-Eustache, located inside the borders of the park of Les Halles.

Lupin reached the revolving door and pushed it. The aroma of roasted meat, game, and baked potatoes enveloped us.

We asked for Dumas fils. Lupin was doing the asking, and since he’d retained an excellent accent, despite his roaming, he received the answer, “Of course!”

We followed the waiter to a small table in the corner, where a fancy gentleman with luxurious, gelled hair and a prominent chin sat. He had a large stained napkin stretched across his chest.

“Mr. Dumas?” Lupin began. “Please forgive me for disturbing you.”

The diner barely raised his eyes from the wine that was being poured, immediately assuming a suspicious expression.

“I hope you haven’t come to ask me about my father’s books,” he began drily when he saw three children standing before him.

“Absolutely not,” Lupin hastened to respond. “On the contrary, I must confess we’ve never read them.”

I wanted to object that I had devoured The Count of Montecristo and The Three Musketeers, but I thought it better to support Arsène’s game. And sure enough, his claim had somewhat of an effect.

“So what do you want?” Dumas asked. “I don’t think you want a meal, I imagine, nor do you seem old enough to invite me to accept a post in the socialist government … although you never know, when officials spend their time shrieking, ‘Power to the young!’ And so, as I already said, I’m not interested.”

Sherlock seemed annoyed by this rant, but limited himself to a look of disapproval. I, however, noticed Dumas glancing over at me as he spoke, as if he hoped I would at least laugh a little. He looked back and forth between us, his head bobbing like a ship in the middle of the sea. So I smiled.

“None of those, actually,” my friend continued. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Arsène Lupin, artist and juggler.”

“Oh, good grief,” Alexandre Dumas muttered under his breath.

“And with me are Master Sherlock Holmes, puzzle buff, and Miss Irene Adler … writer.”

I snapped a fiery glance at him. Why had he introduced me that way?

“Oh, really?” Dumas chuckled, looking at me a little more carefully. “A writer? And what do you write?”

“Murder mysteries,” I replied, without hesitation.

He seemed to leap out of his chair. “A delicate young lady like you writes murder mysteries? What kind?”

“All kinds of them,” I replied. “I don’t have a preference. As long as someone dies.” I looked at Lupin. “And someone investigates.” I looked at Sherlock.

“I don’t believe it!” Dumas exclaimed, greatly amused. “I’ll have to introduce you to my friend, George!” Then he arranged his napkin around the collar of his shirt and grabbed his silverware, because his pigs’ feet and potatoes had arrived. They had an aroma good enough to twist a hungry stomach into knots. “But the fact remains that I still don’t know why you —”

“We’re looking for the Grand Master,” Sherlock interrupted from behind Lupin and me. And we’ve been told you might know who he is.”

At those words, Alexandre Dumas set down his fork, and his face turned ashen. After a moment of church-like silence, he displayed a forced smile. “The Grand Master, eh?”

“Precisely.”

“And you say you’ve never read my father’s books?”

“I actually have,” I admitted. “But as I recall, they don’t speak of a Grand Master.”

He asked what I might have read, and hearing my reply, he murmured, “Oh, of course, of course. Those are probably my papa’s best novels. Even though, you know, it wasn’t really he who wrote them, or at least not entirely. So you’ve never read any of the novels from the series about Marie Antoinette …”

I shook my head.

“Not even Joseph Balsamo, the Count of Cagliostro?”

Once again, I gestured no.

“However,” Sherlock Holmes broke in, “we know that your father was working on a last, great work … And I believe we must find out something about it.”

The man started and gave my friend an anxious look, forgetting the plate before him for a moment. “And you,” he asked in a whisper. “What do you know about that work?”